


behind bars

by crashing_into_the_sun



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: AU- Normal, DUI, Flirting, Gay, Jail, Jail cells, Libraries, Love, M/M, Meeting for the first time, One Shot, Rated teen for language, SnowBaz, Underage Drinking, baz pitch- freeform, boys flirting, carry on, drunk, gay boys, simon and baz - Freeform, simon is kind of OOC, simon snow- freeform, simon stalking Baz at a library, tipsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 11:25:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6564334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crashing_into_the_sun/pseuds/crashing_into_the_sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon and Baz are irresponsible teenagers who meet in a jail cell. Romance ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	behind bars

"So what're you in for?"

Baz had been eyeing the boy for the past hour. He was gorgeous, no doubt, especially so against the dreary background of the jail cell. The fact that Baz was still a little more than buzzed also may have been a factor in how ridiculously attractive he was.

"It's a long story," Baz replied nonchalantly, with a wave of his hand. The other boy pursed his lips in thought. His full, pink lips. He ran his fingers through his hair, a mess of bronzy curls piled atop his head, shaved short at the sides. He looked like he was the kind of guy who just had permanent bed head.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," he smiled, showing off obnoxiously straight teeth and an adorable dimple wedged in the corner of his left cheek.

Baz sighed, but kept silent and leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes. Was it possible to be drunk and hungover at the same time? Maybe it was that boy giving him a headache. Baz practically had to squint just to look at him, he was so bright. It was like staring straight into the sun (except with a far better payoff). His skin, Aleister Crowley, his skin, it was gold with lovely reddish undertones and he had these dark brown moles dotted all over him, on his cheek and his neck and his chest and his arms, forming little constellations. Dozens of the things, he had. Not to mention the little dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks, and the fine blond scruff on his chin, and his fantastical, childlike blue eyes, and-

"I wouldn't put my head on that, if I were you. The walls in here are fairly disgusting." Baz snapped back to reality. The other boy was right, the walls were grimy and dismal, the whole place was, but it was a jail cell. It's not like Baz was expecting five-star accommodations when they cuffed him and put him in the back of the cop car.

"I'm waiting on that story," Baz said, barely a whisper. The boy seemed startled, because he straightened his back immediately and a slight flush came to his cheeks.

"It's not much of one. Yours would probably be more interesting. You look like the type to be sitting in a jail cell. By any chance do you have a pack of fags and a pocket knife with a skull on it in your pocket? Or maybe you ride a motorcycle? I could see that."

"Nope. I hate to break it to you, but it's pretty common protocol to take away all pointy objects from people you arrest," Baz retorted. "Bastards wouldn't let me have the motorcycle in here either." This got a shy smile out of the other boy, which made Baz smirk.

"How about I guess why you're here? If I guess, then will you tell me if I'm right?" The boy replied and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.

"Oh, no way. You already put up the only deal I'm taking. Your story for mine."

"You go first, then." He bit his bottom lip. Jesus. He looked like fucking Apollo or something. Seriously. Baz couldn't think straight (no pun intended) around this guy.

"My story would pale in comparison," Baz laughed. "And besides, you and I both know they've only got us in here to scare us. I mean, I'm just in for the night."

  
"I'm sure that's exactly what they were thinking when they took someone like you, who looks like he should be drinking Jack Daniels' with his hot girlfriend at some slam poetry session, and put him with me, who looks like he just entered his first year in secondary school. I'm pretty terrifying."

"Slam poetry? You mistake me for an artist. I'm just a mess. It's okay, the two often get confused."

"You didn't deny the 'drinking Jack Daniels with your hot girlfriend' part, though." Baz snorted a little bit at that.

"I don't drink." The boy furrowed his brow, and Baz remembered where he was and the fact that the other boy could probably smell the vodka on his breath. "Well, I don't usually drink. Tonight was a special occasion." He spat the word 'special' with a bitterness that made the other boy shudder, almost imperceptibly. He didn't ask, but the question was written all over his face. "I don't really want to talk about it."

"So that leaves, what, the hot girlfriend? Surely someone with cheekbones like that can't be single." The boy grinned devilishly. Baz felt a blush rise to his cheeks.

"There's more to life than cheekbones, my friend. People tend to be wary of boys who end up in jail cells and hotel rooms at the end of the night more than they end up at home. Something about 'mental instability' and whatnot. Can't say I blame them."

"I'm not wary of you. Not one little bit. In fact, I don't think you're half as frightening as you look." Now Baz was really blushing. He could feel the blood creeping up through his neck and face like vines. "I think you wish you were."

"You don't know a thing about me, and for your own good, you should keep it that way."

There was a silence. A heavy silence. It settled over the boys like a blanket, and began to lull Baz to sleep. Just as the edges of his consciousness began to go fuzzy, right at that brink between awake and asleep, his cell mate broke the silence.

"So," he giggled. "Come here often?" Baz was starting to think this kid was a little tipsy too. And he asked him. "No," the boy responded. "Just drunk on life. Drunk on cheekbones. A little drunk on strawberry wine."

"So you are drunk?"

"I prefer the term 'artificially enlightened'." He paused. "Are you straight?"

"Depends on who's asking."

"I'm asking," the boy laughed. "I'm Simon, by the way."

"Simon," Baz said, and Simon loved the way he said it, like he was rolling the letters off his tongue and tasting each and every one. "No. I'm about as gay as they come. And yourself?"

"I'm a little gay when I'm sober. I only admit it when I'm drunk." Another pause. "So yeah, I guess I must be drunk."

"A little gay?" Baz laughed. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not sure. But I'm definitely gay for boys with long black hair and navy blue cashmere sweaters. Who wear kohl eyeliner." Simon glanced at the corner where Baz put the things they'd let him bring into the cell (not much. A jacket, a book). "And who carry around YA romance novels."

"Well, I'm gay all the time. But I may be especially gay for boys named Simon with sleepy blue eyes and shirts with torn t-shirt hems who get drunk on strawberry wine and hit on strangers in jail cells." Baz and Simon both were grinning like idiots now. "I could be a psychopath, you know."

"You seem like more of a sociopath to me," Simon replied boredly. "Now, do you want to know why I'm in jail on such a lovely Tuesday night, or not?"

"Technically, it's Wednesday morning."

"Shut up, I'm telling a story."

***************************************************

It was dark, it was cold, it was late, and Simon had nowhere to go. He had just broken up with Agatha for about the eleventh time in the past two weeks. He didn't know why he kept going back when she obviously wasn't into him. Probably because he knew that after every night he totally struck out, after every final exam he came _this_ close to failing, after every single time he found himself broken down on her front porch, sobbing, she'd still be there. Because she did care about him. She really did. She just didn't love him. Honestly, he didn't love her either. Not even close. He wasn't even sure how much he liked her.

And yet, there he was, dragging his ass down Main Street at one in the morning, a bit further down the 'drunk' road than tipsy (all on strawberry wine Agatha's mom had stashed in the cupboard- Merlin, he was such a lightweight), headed to the all-night diner for some pancakes, because why shouldn't he be able to get pancakes at one in the morning? He was almost an adult, god damnit, and if he wanted some pancakes when he was drunk and sad (though truth be told, Simon always wanted pancakes) he could go and get some.

There were two cars in the parking lot of the diner, and it was apparent upon entrance that they both belonged to employees. Not that that was a surprise- the place was second rate in full daylight. Simon slapped some money on the countertop and watched the tired-looking cashier eye him suspiciously. "Pancakes," he mumbled, and took a seat, laying his head down on the questionably cleaned booth table.

About ten minutes later, his pancakes came, steaming hot. Simon dug in the second they got handed to him, burning his mouth. He didn't even bother to put the butter or syrup on them. The waitress gave him a strange look (in all fairness, he was eating like a rabid animal) but just muttered, "Enjoy your meal, sir," and walked away.

Simon was on his last pancake when a man walked through the door with trouble on his arm.

From the back, Simon could have sworn it was Agatha. Long, corn-silk blonde hair down to her waist, impossibly long legs, wearing a pink floral dress that Simon would have bet his life belonged to his ex-girlfriend. And he didn't know why, but that made him very angry. That she could just walk through the door an hour after their breakup with another guy, walk straight into the place that she knew belonged to Simon for his late nights when he wanted to go anywhere as long as it wasn't anywhere important.

Looking back on it, Simon knew that it was stupid. First of all, he and Agatha had been seeing other people for weeks now. It was over, and they both knew it, and the fight they'd had that night wasn't even a break up. It was more of a second-or-third confirmation. Also, the girl wasn't even Agatha. But he didn't know that until he'd already jumped up unsteadily from his chair and whirled the guy around (he had glasses, and for a split second all Simon could think was, ' _you wouldn't hit a guy with glasses, would you_?') and punched him in the jaw, hard enough to knock aforementioned glasses to the floor and shock the hell out of the poor guy and his innocent girlfriend, who turned around and was wrong, all wrong in the face. And then Simon realized his mistake.

***************************************************

"After that, I only remember bits and pieces," Simon finished his story. "Like rolling around on the ground with this scrawny five-foot-five nerd who was actually kind of kicking my ass. Oh, and trying to flirt with that cop. That was a bad idea."

"So, do you flirt with every guy and girl you find remotely attractive? Or am I even just an inkling of special?"

"Oh, no, the cop wasn't attractive. I'm just an unforgivable sycophant. I'm definitely going to hell."

"I'll meet you there," Baz laughed. "I guess I owe you a story, now."

"I'd be slightly more interested if I knew your name first," Simon replied. He was more sober now than he had been at the beginning of the conversation, but even mostly coherent, he found this boy more attractive than anyone else he'd seen before. Which was different. He knew he liked guys, to a certain extent, but the whole thing with Agatha had kind of pushed the thought to the back of his mind for a while.

"It's a mouthful," Baz sighed.

"I'm prepared," Simon said, then winked at Baz, who blushed in his delicate way. He did a lot of delicate things, considering his overall appearance suggested gambling and smoking in back alleyways.

Baz cleared his throat as if in a drama performance. The gleam in his eyes told Simon that this was kind of performance to him, and Simon soon figured out why. "My name is Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch," he paused for a thespian sweep of his hands through the air. "The third." Simon stared, shell-shocked. "No, I'm just kidding about that last part. Not the third. The one and only. You can call me Baz."

"I like it," Simon complimented. "Baz sounds like exactly the kind of boy I'd never take to meet my parents. Which, of course, is exactly the kind of boy I want." That coquettish smile again, and then a furrow of his brow. "Now, Tyrannus. Basilton. Baz," Simon began, and Baz loved the way he said each of his names. The first one sounded like smoke, billowing from his perfect, full lips. The second evoked images of fire, flames licking roughly at the corners of paper, the pages curling up and blackening. And the last simply sent shivers down Baz's spine. "Tell me your story."

"How much would you be willing to bet I could tell you the whole thing in less than ten words?"

"I have no money, I spent it all on pancakes."

"Oh, I've got plenty of money. Bet me something worth my time. Bet me a secret."

"Okay. I've got a few of those."

"Ready?" Baz grinned. "Ten words or less."

"I thought you said less than ten words? You know what, never mind. Starting..... now." Simon cued, and Baz began. He quickly counted up on his fingers, then began to speak.

"Father. Homophobe. Snuck out. Party. Drunk. Tried to drive. DUI."

"Wait, how old are you?" Simon asked, forgetting about the bet.

"Seventeen. But you owe me a secret."

"Can the secret be that I'm seventeen, too?"

"Absolutely not!" Baz exclaimed. "Just because I don't know it doesn't mean it's a secret. I've known you two hours. There's a lot I don't know."

"So, arguably, that means everything about me is a secret to you," Simon drawled. "And, also, I'd like to argue that DUI is four words."

Baz raised an eyebrow in confusion. "Write it down. It's one."

"But it's an acronym," Simon said, a slight whine in his voice. "Driving under the influence. That's four. And that means, more than ten words."

"Okay, Grammar Genius," Baz acquiesced. "How about we tell each other a secret? A compromise, if you will." Simon considered, then agreed. "Alright," said Baz. "You start."

"Here's my secret- I've seen you before. A lot," Simon whispered, a little embarrassed. Baz raised his eyebrow higher.

"I'm intrigued. Tell me more."

"For the past few months... Okay, take this in the least stalker-like way humanly possible, okay?" Baz laughed and nodded."I've been following you, just a little. Mostly at the library. You're there a lot. Saturday afternoons. Sunday mornings. Sometimes Wednesdays just after school gets out." Simon paused, gauging Baz's reaction, but the other boys face was impossible to read. "After school gets out for me, at least. And you want to know what?"

"Sure," Baz said, in such an offhanded manner that Simon seriously wondered if he even cared. If he should be telling him, if it would mean anything.

"You're like... Seventy five percent of the reason I broke up with Agatha for the first time. Because I wanted to ask you out. But.. It just never worked out that way." Simon's voice dropped to a low, lonely-sounding timbre. "And so, when I couldn't ask you out, I went back to her. Over and over and over. But I kept trying. I just never tried hard enough."

"Are you trying now?" Baz asked.

"I'm beyond trying. Right now, I'm needing."

**************************************************

For the past two months, Simon had been trying to work up the courage to speak to the gorgeous, ethereal boy reading Pride and Prejudice. Whenever Simon went to the library to study, he was there-until Simon stopped going to the library just to study. Now he went when he didn't have to study and sat among the books, waiting for him to show up, watching the hundreds of novels around him collect dust. He could feel the burning glare of the librarians as he sat in their comfiest chair in the corner and stared, never cracking a single book. He wasn't much of a reader. But the dagger eyes were more than worth being able to look at that fantastically beautiful boy.

Whenever he stepped into the room, Simon felt like all the air had been sucked from his chest. His eyes were light grey-green and intense, but drooping some days, like he hadn't gotten enough sleep. His skin was a flawless expanse of white, stark against the blackness of his hair, which nearly reached his shoulders. He was tall, so tall, definitely over six feet, and he always had earphones in with his music just loud enough that Simon could hear it from across the room, but could never distinguish what it was. Simon suspected that it was punk rock, or maybe something dark, funky, maybe alternative.

He never studied. He always sat down with a different book (almost always some sort of romance) and just read for an hour or two. Simon was always in the same corner, pretending to read the same book (it was Huckleberry Finn and he'd never even read a single sentence, just stared blankly at the pages and glanced up frequently at the boy across from him).

Simon always kept as out of sight as possible. He didn't even think they'd made eye contact before. But today, it was all going to change. He and Agatha has gotten into a huge, stupid fight (something about Simon being 'distant' and ' hard to communicate with'), and they were done. Now was his chance. It was Saturday, two o clock, and in fifteen minutes, the boy should be walking through the doors.

It was 2:15. Simon held his breath as the seconds of the grandfather clock in the corner, old and slightly mangled, ticked down the seconds.

2:16. Nothing. Simon tried not to get worked up about it. The boys was always punctual, 2:15 on the dot, but hey, everyone was late once in a while, right? Nobody was perfect (though the dark-haired boy seemed to be as close as one could get, physically at least). Simon took a few deep breaths. He'd be here. He'd been here every single Saturday at 2:15 for eight weeks.

As the clock neared 2:20, Simon began to work up a nervous sweat.

What if he was in an accident? What if he'd moved to some foreign country? What if he'd eloped with his hot celebrity boyfriend (or worse, his hot celebrity girlfriend) and was never coming back?

By 2:30, Simon was drained and he'd given up. He packed up and went home.

****************************************************

Baz was laughing. "What?" Simon asked defensively, cheeks a tad flushed.

"I was visiting my aunt in Prague," he giggled. Simon almost smiled at him. He didn't seem like much of a giggler just by looking at him, but here he was, giggling like a little girl. "I wasn't running off with my celebrity girlfriend to drink Jack Daniels at poetry slams." His laughter intensified.

"I tried a few times, after that, but I would always chicken out. Once, I got five feet from you, but then I spilled coffee all down my shirt and I ran away." Simon chuckled, then looked at Baz. "Now, it's your turn."

"My secret?" Simon nodded eagerly. "Okay. I'd like to go on a date with you." Simon beamed.

"I don't know if that counts, but I'm willing to let it slide."

Baz laughed again, a twinkle in his eye that hadn't been there before. He admitted to himself that Simon wasn't the kind of boy he'd imagined himself ending up with- messy, youthful, jittery. He looked like he'd been tossed up by the wind and blown far from where he belonged, and also like he didn't really belong anywhere. But Baz didn't belong anywhere either.

Maybe they belonged together.

When morning came, and their families came down to get them and scold them and their parents could cry about how disappointed they were (Baz was right, they just wanted to scare them. Simon's case was a little more serious, with a court date and everything, but for now things were good), the two boys exchanged numbers.

Neither had ever thought they'd be so sad to get out from behind bars.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! If you liked it, if you hated it... All constructive criticism is welcome and wanted :)


End file.
